Forth the lover with a farewell moan,
As from the presence of a thing unhuman ;—
Oh, what unholy spell hath turn'd to stone
The young warm heart of woman!
'Tis midnight—and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping,
And o'er the corse of a self-murder'd man
The Maiden fair is weeping.
In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,
No pressure answers to her hands so pressing;
In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.
Despairing, stunn'd, by her eternal loss,
She flies to succor that may best beseem her;
But, lo a frowning figure veils the Cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer !
With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll,
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters,
The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.
"Wretch! sinner! renegade! to truth and God,
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!"
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last martyr!
And side by side the hapless Lovers lie;
Tell me, harsh Priest! by yonder tragic token, What part hath God in such a bond, whereby Or hearts or vows are broken?
I GAZE upon a city,-
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam!
Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Tall houses with quaint gables, Where frequent windows shine, Aud quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels
From western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England,
But I'm in Rotterdam.
Those sailors, how outlandish
The face and form of each!
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
And now across a market
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue,
The Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus
I offer my salaam ;
Who tells me you're in England,
But I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open-
I mingle in its crowd,-
The dominos are noisy-
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavor now of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Then here it goes, a bumper-
The toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine;
It well deserves the brightest,
Where sunbeam ever swam-
"The girl I love in England"
I drink at Rotterdam!
SHALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth?
Yet did'st thou ne'er restore my fainting health ?-
Did'st thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, did'st thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me ?—
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
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